Having spent the day musing over the origins of the modern witchcraft, I had a vivid dream. It seemed to be a cold January afternoon, and Aleister Crowley was having Gerald Gardner over to tea. It was 1945, and talk of an early end to the war was in the air. An atmosphere of optimism prevailed in the "free world" , but the wheezing old magus was having none of it. "Nobody is interested in magick any more!" Crowley ejaculated. "My friends on the Continent are dead or in exile, or grown old; the movement in America is in shambles. I've seen my best candidates turn against me....Achad, Regardie -- even that gentleman out in California, what's - his - name, AMORC, the one that made all the money.." "O, bosh, Crowley," Gardner waved his hand impatiently, "all